Ben Soul

by Richard George

He wanted to go back and read a book while Butter slept on his lap. San Danson Station was no urban center, but even its bit of traffic noise rasped on his nerves. Ben took a deep breath, and braced himself against the noise.

  Wong’s Emporium was a general store. A redolence of old and mysterious spices, perfumes, and medicines greeted the customer’s nose. The dim interior had shadowy piles of merchandise on tables and shelves ranged around the walls. A door into another room, brighter than the rest of the shop, showed the corner of a butcher’s showcase. As Ben started into the room, the lights came on, throwing the interior and goods into sharp relief.

  “Welcome, Mr. Soul,” someone said.

  Ben looked around, but couldn’t see anybody.

  “Over here by the cash register,” the voice continued. “I’m Shubert Wong, one of the proprietors. Folks from the village call me Wong Shu.” Ben spotted the speaker. He was perched on a stool behind an old-fashioned mechanical ornate cash register covered with brass curlicues. Wong Shu was short enough or sitting low enough that the cash register hid him from entering customers.

  “Hi, Shu,” Ben said, going over to him. “How did you know who I am?” Ben could see Shu was Chinese by ancestry, though his speech was pure American. He guessed Shu was somewhere between thirty and eighty years old. His face was unlined, except for a few laugh lines around his eyes.

  “Elke described you, so we’d know you’re from the village,” he said. “You’ll be wanting some supplies, I suppose, for one man and one dog?”

  “Yes, for me and for Butter.”

  “Butter? That’s what you call her?”

  “Yes. It seems to fit, somehow.”

  “Better than Spot or Rover, I suppose. Try the Happy Dog canned food and dry. Mix half a can with a cup of the dry, feed her once a day. It seems to please most dogs best.”

  “Where is it?”

  “On the third shelf down just left of the door.”

  “And a leash?”

  “Same area, just to the left of the food.”

  Ben went over, selected three flavors at random, and got a good stout leather leash with a leather collar.

  “You can put them on the counter here while you get your food. My brother, Waylon, will help you in the grocery.”

  Waylon looked like Shubert’s twin. He grunted and waved by way of greeting and continued stocking shelves. Ben selected a cauliflower, a head of lettuce, a few potatoes, some onions, and some carrots. Then Ben scanned the tiny meat case. Nothing appealed to Ben except a rasher of bacon. He asked for a pound. Waylon weighed it for him. Ben selected a dozen eggs and a block of cheddar cheese.

  “You got it all?” Waylon asked him. His voice was high-pitched where his brother’s was normal.

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “Cash or credit?” he inquired as he came over to the register.

  “Cash,” Ben said.

  “Okay by me.” He rang up Ben’s vegetables and proteins. “How much on your side, Shu?”

  “Seven ninety-five,” Shu shouted back. “I’ll be right in with it.”

  “Moved in okay?” Waylon asked.

  “Yes, thank you,” Ben said. He realized his activities were probably common village gossip, and promised himself to be discreet. Shu brought in his bag of dog items, and Ben promised the brothers Wong he would stop by next week to replenish his larder.

  Nap on the Beach

  When Ben got back, Butter wanted to go for a run. He put his groceries away. It was not quite noon. Ben considered lunch, but the cove beckoned. The cold pasta in the refrigerator did not. He snapped his fingers and Butter raced to the door, her tail a whirlwind of eager delight. Ben stooped over and buckled her new collar around her neck. She shook her neck and head a couple of times trying to get the feel of it. Then he snapped the leash on her collar. Butter lunged through the door. The leash brought her up short. She looked back at him and whimpered for him to hurry.

  The sky was a mother-of-pearl color, gray and white with hinted shimmers of purples and roses. The sun probably wouldn’t disperse the overcast today. Ben opened the gate and Butter bounded out. She stopped and waited for him at the end of the leash, aquiver with eagerness. He smiled, not for the first time, at his pure joy in her company. They turned left at the gate and went west toward the upper end of the village. None of the neighbors showed. They kept to themselves most of the time.

  Butter sampled the scent on several trees and fence posts as they walked. They turned past the most seaward cottage toward the beach stairs. Ben released Butter from her leash. She bounded down the stairs, ready to race the surf. She had discovered that harassing the surf was great fun. She loved to chase it out into the cove, and then run from it as it turned and chased her. She frolicked along, scattering the sandpipers as she went. Ben followed.

  They meandered toward the cove’s mouth and the ocean. They hadn’t gone that direction before. The surf grew louder as they ambled. Ben could see the two sentinel rock piles clearly. The one on the south side was close to shore; the one on the north was a little farther out. Gulls wheeled and cried overhead. Some scrap of fish to fight over, he supposed. On the cliff above, he could just make out the line of a roof. He guessed this was the Chapel Emma Freed had mentioned. The beach ended where the cove met the sea. A tumble of black rocks defined the shore a few feet before the cliffs began. Ben could see the shelf that held the village ended just past the Chapel, too, in a great rib of the mountain. Butter, of course, had to explore the rocks. She loved splashing in puddles. He whistled to her. She carefully ignored him until his third, most piercing, whistle. Then she turned and raced back to him, tail in a whirlwind spin. Her legs were wet, and the sand stuck to them. She shook the water from her coat. A lot of it landed on Ben. He hoped she’d dry out enough to knock the sand off on the way home.

  She raced away again. Ben heard her barking. He jogged toward her. When he caught up with her, he saw what had disturbed her. A man in a broad-brimmed hat stood at the edge of the wet sand gesticulating at the seagulls wheeling overhead. Ben hushed Butter, with some difficulty. The person took no notice of them. Ben approached, to apologize for Butter.

  When he drew nearer, he could see the person was a stocky man dressed in a white linen suit with a black string tie and a broad-brimmed hat. He had a white moustache and a goatee, and white hair straggling from his hat brim. He looked ready to sell fried chicken. He was shouting at the seagulls in a very Southern drawl, calling them “Damnyankees” (which he made a twelve-syllable word) and “Carpetbaggers” (which he made a six or seven-syllable word).

  Ben called to him in a loud voice, to penetrate not only the sigh of waves and wind, but also the ferocity of his attack on the seagulls. The man shook a final fist at the wheeling seagulls, and turned to Ben. He held his hands, palm up, as if to stop any approach, and then ran for the stairs up to the village.

  When he got to the top stair, he turned around, removed his hat, and bowed to Ben. The white hair straggling from the brim came off with the hat, revealing a shaved head. He stood upright, put his hat and hair back on his head, and disappeared into the village trees.

  Ben called Butter, but she wasn’t through with her run. She was racing back and forth, barking at the seagulls. Ben considered insisting she come home, but she was so joyful he didn’t. After all, he had no reason to hurry home. The strange man whose hair was part of his hat puzzled Ben. Emma hadn’t mentioned any unusual people living in the village. Then, again, she was familiar with them all. She might consider the man’s behavior ordinary. Ben determined to ask her, the next time he saw her, who the man was. Elke and Emma both had indicated very few strangers ever came to the cove. It wasn’t as easy to find, for most people, as it had been for Ben.

  Butter tired of chasing waves and annoying seagulls. She lay down on a dry patch of sand, panting, to wait for Ben. He walked toward her. She didn’t rise, so he
chose to rest with her. He plopped himself on the sand and re-attached her leash. They gazed together at the ballet of the cove waters through half-closed eyes. Ben drowsed. Butter slept.

  Ben Meets Dickon

  Butter barked a sharp warning. Ben woke. A man was walking toward him from the ocean end of the cove. His head was bare, and his jacket was black and shiny. He wore blue jeans and white sneakers. Ben hooked his fingers in Butter’s collar and waited for the man to come to him.

  Ben judged the man’s stomach was still flat under his coat. He filled out his jeans well. His hair was red speckled with gray. His face came clearer as he got closer. Ben guessed his age to be fifty plus. He had character lines around his mouth and eyes, but his cheeks and brow were smooth, and slightly ruddy. His eyes carried wariness in their green deeps. His face spoke a pleasant nature, though he was frowning a little at Ben. Or, perhaps, squinting. Ben wondered if he was myopic, and had forgotten his glasses. He stopped near Ben, looking at him.

  Butter growled. Ben stroked her head to soothe her. The man studied Ben for a long moment then said, “Whose little boy are you?”

  “I belong to the highest bidder. Who owns you?” Butter wagged her tail tentatively, making a fan shape in the sand.

  “Various demonic forces. Are you Ben Soul?” Butter whined, and stood and stretched to reach the man’s